


Sunday Mornings I Miss You the Most

by f_femslash



Category: Rizzoli & Isles
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_femslash/pseuds/f_femslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: They hook up occasionally, but never talk about it. Jane a total bottom. Happy to let go of all the stresses of being a hard-ass, homicide detective. Maura topping like a pro, and fucking her with her tits. Maybe they want more than casual, but how to even begin to approach that since they’re so deep in denial. Maybe Maura breaks down during sex because of feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Mornings I Miss You the Most

It had become a part of their weekly routine more often than Maura cared to admit. The Robber, or the baseball game, or the tail end of a disastrous dinner date, followed by wine and beer on Maura’s couch, followed by…Maura’s head buried between Jane’s legs, while Jane grabbed back of Maura’s head, rocking her hips against her mouth.   
The first time, it only happened because Maura had been drunk enough to lean over and kiss her like she’d wanted to for so long. Jane had responded with lowest, throatiest, sexiest moan Maura had ever heard, opening her mouth the allow Maura’s tongue entrance. Before either of them could fully consider the ramifications, Maura had Jane naked, one long leg draped over the back of the couch as she fucked Jane senseless, her teeth leaving marks all over the detective.   
Maura had fallen asleep with Jane curled up in her arms, and awoken alone in her bed, arriving at work to find Jane acting like nothing had happened, like Maura’s lips hadn’t bruised hers, like Maura’s fingers hadn’t been inside her. Maura had walked around feeling hollow inside until the next weekend, when it happened again, only this time sober.   
They’d been sitting on Maura’s couch again, watching a documentary about technological advances in the field of radiocarbon dating. Maura was surprised that Jane had barely protested when she’d picked it out on the DVR, and was even more surprised when she continued to watch without complaint. Maura glanced over at the detective.  
“You actually look like you’re enjoying this,” she said, noticing the small smile playing around Jane’s lips.   
“Well,” Jane began, continuing to look at the TV, “I figure you’ll find some way to make it up to me,” she smirked, finally shifting her gaze from the TV screen to Maura’s shocked face.   
Maura hadn’t wasted any time in pinning Jane to the couch, the forgotten documentary playing out behind her as she tore Jane’s shirt open, scattering buttons across the living room. She was surprised at how compliant Jane was when she tugged at the hem of her tank top. Maura had assumed, in all of her fantasizing, that Jane would be a dominant and aggressive lover, and she’d chalked up her submissiveness to her inebriated state the first time they had slept together.   
For once, Maura had been happy to admit she was wrong. She’d palmed Jane’s breasts roughly, rolling her nipples between her thumb and forefinger and feeling Jane’s hips moving against the couch beneath her as her head fell back, and Maura heard that delicious moan again.  
It had been going on for months, and every Sunday morning Maura woke up alone in her bed, Jane’s scent, still wrapped in the bedclothes, and the empty beer bottles in the recycling the only evidence of the night before. In the beginning, Maura had a hard time getting out of bed, preferring to bury her face in the pillow beside her and simply breathe. But as time wore on, she found she couldn’t spend the day enduring the same casual touches and caring glances from the detective, only to come home and be reminded of her in her bed, as well.   
Maura longed to ask Jane what all of it meant, but then the Fairfield murder happened and she spent her days in a state of righteous anger, leaving her with nothing but despair during her lonely nights at home, her Jane-free weekends.   
Now, here they were, the Fairfields were behind them, their differences aside, after a night at the Robber. Maura pulled off one heel, then the other as she made her way to her bedroom to put them back in their correct box in the closet. She heard Jane open another beer in the kitchen, then the muffled sound of her boots on the carpet of the hallway.  
Maura watched as Jane crossed the room and flopped down on her bed, kicking her boots off before Maura could yell at her.  
“Maur…” she said quietly, putting her beer down on the bedside table. Maura went over to slide a coaster underneath it.   
“Hmm?” she asked, keeping her back to Jane, steeling herself for the sight of the detective in her bed once again.  
“I am really sorry, you know,” Jane reached out to grab Maura wrist, “about all the things I said to you.”   
Maura nodded, still unable to look at Jane as her heart rate increased, her pulse pounding in her ears. She stared down at the surface of her bedside table, willing Jane to say something, to acknowledge what they were doing, anything.  
“Come here,” Jane said in a low tone, and Maura felt her resolve break, turning to push Jane flat on her back and crawl on top of her, pressing their lips together urgently. Jane’s hands roamed over Maura’s back as she bent her head to kiss Jane’s neck, sucking on the spot below her ear that had proven to elicit that moan Maura had loved since their first night together.  
Maura leaned back so she could pull Jane’s shirt and tank top off, unclasping her bra and throwing it aside. She brought her lips down to Jane’s dusky nipple, flicking her tongue against it and biting down lightly, making Jane gasp. Maura closed her eyes, the noises of Jane’s pleasure filling her mind until the detective was writhing beneath her. Maura prayed for Jane to say something, ask her to touch her, beg, acknowledge in some way that they were touching each other, fucking each other more and more often and that this made them more than just friends. Maura opened her eyes and unbuckled Jane’s belt, unbuttoning her pants and sliding her hand between her legs, no longer interested in teasing. She wanted Jane to feel how badly she wanted her. Jane was so incredibly wet the Maura groaned and looked up at her, gasping again when she found Jane was watching her, her eyes dark with lust.   
Maura slid two fingers inside Jane, curling them against her roughly, pushing in and out of her at a fast pace, her efforts eliciting a low moan from Jane. The detective moved her hips in time to Maura’s thrusts, her fingers clutching her shoulders as Maura added a third finger and began swiping her thumb over her clit. She recognized the tightening of Jane’s muscles around her fingers, the shaking of her legs, the shuddering of her body and the implications behind Maura’s intimate knowledge of Jane’s body were suddenly overwhelming. The facts and evidence fell into place in Maura’s mind: she was in love with Jane, and Jane was not in love with her.  
As Jane tumbled over the edge, clutching Maura to her and moaning into her ear, Maura felt hot tears begin sliding down her cheeks. Mortified, she sucked in several shaking breaths in an attempts to calm herself, but they escaped from her as sobs, and suddenly she was collapsed against Jane, sobbing, slowly sliding her fingers out of Jane.  
“Maura!” Jane said, her voice full of concern, “Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?”   
Maura continued to attempt to staunch her tears, her shoulders shaking with the effort. She shook her head, rolling away from Jane, curling onto her side. She willed the detective to leave the way she always did, quietly, unassuming.   
“Maura...” Jane sighed, and Maura felt her hand on her shoulder, then her lips, and Maura turned toward her sharply, suddenly angry. How could she do things like that and feel nothing? How could she be feeling nothing after all this time?  
“What are we doing?” Maura asked, sitting up and wiping tears from her cheeks, “What is this?” she gestured between them, imploring Jane with her eyes not to dismiss the question. Jane shook her head.  
“I don’t…Maura, it’s just…”  
“I love you, Jane. I’m in love with you,” Maura corrected herself before Jane could misinterpret. “I can’t do this anymore if you don’t…if you don’t feel the same way.”   
There was no mistaking the look on Jane’s face, even without Maura’s knowledge of the arrangement of facial musculature: pure terror. There was a long pause in which Jane continued to gape at her, looking utterly panicked.   
“Maura, I…” Maura felt her heart sink as Jane paused and took a deep breath, “I’m so sorry, Maura,” she whispered, her hands reaching up to brush tears off of Maura’s cheeks, “If I had...If I had known, I would have…at least spent the night,” she finally breathed out, a small smiled playing on her lips, “I love you, Maura. You’re the stupidest genius I know, and I’m an idiot.”  
Maura blinked, unsure of what was happening, knowing only that Jane loved her, and she was leaning up to kiss her and pushing her back against the bed.  
The next day was the first Sunday morning Maura hadn’t woken up with a sinking feeling in her stomach. Instead, she awoke to the smell of coffee and sounds of Jane fighting with her espresso maker. Maura smiled, the facts and evidence sliding into place in her brain.


End file.
